


Cross

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Almost Hate Sex, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel provokes her king, only to find she’s in over her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Start with a typical "Tauriel pushes him till he has her pinned against the wall in a rage" hate sex fic. Tauriel is totally on board with the idea when she starts, but when they start in on the angry sex, however, she realizes how far in over her head she is and freaks out, begging him to stop. Thranduil stops immediately to comfort her and make sure she's all right, and they wind up cuddling instead.” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25724674#t25724674). **Warning:** potentially triggering fearful reaction to first time rough sex.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s strange, the first time she looks at him and sees that _fire_ in his eyes, the first time she crosses the line of his authority to make him really _burn_. She expects to be demoted in a heartbeat, but her captaincy remains, and the stern scolding is the extent of her punishment. The tension lingers for years to come, and it’s stranger still, the first time that fire morphs into something _more_.

Somewhere along the way, she stops thinking of their strife beyond simple hatred—though in truth, she’s never once hated her king, no matter how at odds they become. Tauriel respects him beyond words, and even when she disagrees with him, she always understands his reasoning. He’s wise, intelligent, and very, very beautiful. She’s drawn to his attractive features, even in the heat of arguments, and after a time, their spats become something she associates with _passion._ She looks into his smoldering gaze, and a shiver runs straight down her spine, her lips parting as if to gasp. She stands her ground, always does, until his power is so strong that she must bow her head in submission. She’s strong in her convictions, but never treasonous. 

She begins to think of him off duty, in more than just the way a citizen might look up to their ruler. She thinks of him when she brushes her hair at night, when she slips into her baths, when she curls beneath her covers and lets her hands roam. It’s been a long time since she’s taken a lover, and she’s never found one truly _worthy_ of her—she’s confident, her standards high. She could have the prince, she knows, if only in secret, but next to his handsome father, she knows Legolas wouldn’t be enough. 

It’s _King Thranduil_ she thinks of, when she slides her hand between her legs. When she buries her face in her pillow, it’s his name she has to muffle. She remembers the clean-cut scent of him, the broad lines of his shoulders and the long, pale hair that flows elegantly down his back. She thinks of the way he looms over her, up on his throne, and the leisured way he strolls down the spiraled staircase, when he wants to scold her in furious, hushed tones: only for her ears. She thinks of the way he looks at her, the sheer, brutal strength of him, and it makes her moan and _writhe_. She has countless fantasies of him _dominating_ her. She wants him to give her orders she can’t refuse, make her kneel at his feet, strip bare for him, service him beyond her fighting skills, to have him take her back to the dungeon she guards and do horrible, naughty things...

And even as she flitters through the daydreams, she knows it’s _strange_. She’s never let a man take control of her in the bedroom, and before these fantasies, she never thought she would. She’s used to taking charge on the battlefield, and her personal life hasn’t been much different. Yet she finds herself wondering just how much disobedience it would take to force Thranduil’s hand, to push him past the wall of respect he always stops at. 

And then, when she hunts the spiders for what seems the billionth time, and she realizes just where they’re coming from, she sucks in a breath and tells herself: _this is it._ He will only have her protect his lands, but her thirst for victory, and a taste of this world, stretches beyond those borders. 

She doesn’t report to his throne. Instead, she deliberately returns late, bidding the rest of her party good night, and heading straight for his chambers. She knows he will have retired from his throne, and indeed, she finds familiar guards outside his doors: her own underlings. She nods at them as she passes, and she sees the nervousness run through them: the challenge must be all over her face. She’s here to send sparks flying, and they stand rigid while she raps on the tall oak doors. 

He opens one after a moment, still in his expensive silver robes and autumn crown. His eyes sweep over her, and she automatically straightens. She’s acutely aware of the slight dirt on her clothes, of the webs she had to comb out of her hair. She’s stripped her weapons away, but otherwise come as she is. Looking tousled might better help her case. When his eyes reach hers, she lowers her gaze, announcing, “I bring a report of the hunt, My Lord.” She doesn’t have to look to know he’s raising an eyebrow. It’s late, and there’s nothing pressing to say.

But she waits anyway, until he steps aside, offering her entrance to his chambers. With her breath held, she steps inside. She can hear the door close behind her: they’re alone. 

Thranduil sweeps past her. She’s been in his chambers before, rare though it is, and always found them polished and pristine, as though nothing inside has moved for an age. The grand, four poster bed looks as though each of its ends are living trees, the canopy knit together branches, and various pieces of furniture look like extensions of the wooden walls themselves. A thick, emerald rug with white and jeweled embroidering covers the circular floor, and a small table by the foot of the bed bears a single glass of red wine. There is no desk, no appropriate place to sit for official business, so Tauriel merely stands while Thranduil stops before the wine. 

He takes the stem between his fingers, lifting the brim to his lips, and Tauriel feels put in her place already. There is no glass to offer her. She’s not of a high enough status to drink with her king, even if there were. She certainly isn’t high enough to deserve his attentions, and yet the tranquility on his gorgeous face when he drinks makes her want to rub her thighs together. She knows that if she doesn’t at least _try,_ the fantasies will drive her mad; he becomes more irresistible all the time. 

She opens her mouth and says levelly, “We need to fight the spiders at their root, My Lord.” Parting the glass from his mouth, he glances casually at her, and she presses on, “They are spawning faster than ever. It does no good to cut them from our lands when they merely gather again.”

He places the glass on the table, puts his hands behind his back, and tells her simply, “I have made my orders clear on this matter.”

He has. Still, she licks her lips and forces herself to meet his eyes, insisting, “They are not enough. You must send a team to Dol Guldur.” Even the words sound wrong on her lips, but she means them. 

His face is hardening. “That is beyond my territory, and therefore no concern of yours.”

“It is our concern. It has been our concern for years, and it grows more so every day.”

“Tauriel,” Thranduil hisses, and the mere sound of her name on his lips makes her have to suppress a shiver. “You will cease this.”

It takes a great deal of courage to say, “I will not.”

He takes a step forward. Tauriel’s eyes flash; they’ve connected again, and she thinks she can see that _interest_ in him, but she can’t be sure and barely dares to hope. She’s sure the lust must be all over her face. As firm as she stands, she _wants_ him, badly, and worse, she wants him like _this_ , fierce and unimpressed with her. She knows she has no chance at _love_ , but perhaps he could enjoy batting a lowly silver elf around, and when he takes another step, Tauriel’s breath hitches. 

He says, low and nearly in a growl, “Do not take that tone with me. You are insolent enough. You will do as I say, and never mention that place to me again.”

A part of her screams to drop to her knees and apologize, but the desire in her tightens her gut, and she breathes, “You will have to make me.”

His eyes widen, and for a long moment, he looks at her. Her body is red at this point. She feels raw, ripe, like she’s giving off pheromones that beg: _take me_. He’s so achingly beautiful. Her eyes fall to his lips, as though she isn’t being obvious enough. 

He lifts a hand to the side of her face. His fingertips trace her high cheekbone, and her eyes flutter closed: she lets out a tiny, strangled _moan_. 

As his fingers twist into the back of her red hair, he hisses, “You seek a dangerous relief, Tauriel.” She knows they aren’t speaking of spiders anymore. 

She urges him, “If you do not teach me a lesson, I will not learn.” His eyebrow lifts. The corner of his lips twitches, and she knows she’s won. 

He’s slammed into her a second later. 

Tauriel gasps as she’s pulled back by her hair, and he’s on her, forcing her to stumble back—her feet nearly trip over one another, and then she’s rammed up against the wall, his taut body closing in around her. He blankets her, taller and stronger, one hand still tight in her hair and the other on her hip, pinning her in place. His weight and body heat are all over her, and she thinks he’s going to kiss her—their noses are touching, side by side, his breath ghosting over hers, but first he snarls, “You wish to be punished?”

For one bizarre, horrible moment, Tauriel experiences a jolt of fear. It’s gone as soon as it’s come, just a mere flash in amidst a sea of lust, but it leaves her off balance. She finds herself only nodding. Of course she wants him. Everyone wants him. She’s thought of no one else for so long that she can barely remember what else she might’ve ever wanted before him. Yet now that his presence looms over her, she realizes just how much _power_ he truly has. He’s a greater warrior, a larger being, the man she works for, her _king_ —she’s truly, utterly _helpless_ , and it isn’t a game.

But she’s nodded, and his mouth comes crashing into hers. Her skull’s bashed against the wall, hard enough to make her wince against him, her vision flashing, but her eyes close a moment later. His lips press hard into hers, his tongue tracing her seam before slipping inside, taking great loops of her mouth that cover her teeth and her walls and leave her gasping to keep up. She can feel his body all over hers, crushing her in place. Her breasts are flattened between them, baring down on her lungs, though he’s already stealing her breath away; when they part, she’s breathless, and his mouth remains open, like he wants to bite her, _brand_ her; he seems like the sort of man who would want to stake his claim, and she wants to give it to him, but—

He takes her trim arm and turns her away from the wall, out towards the rug, and he throws her to the floor, too hard and fast for her to stop the fall. Her blood is boiling, hotter than simple interest; adrenaline courses through her. The rug cushions her, so there is no pain, only shock and helplessness. She lifts on her elbow to look up at him, and he’s towering over her. He slinks down like a feral beast, and even as her nerves seize her arms to render them useless, her hips lift to meet his, her chest arching forward, encouraging him to take her. As he climbs over her, he grinds his hips down into hers, pinning them to the floor, and she can feel the bulge in his robes, what must be his _cock_ —Tauriel’s head tosses back, gasping—she’s dreamed of having it inside her so many times—

But the real thing is very different. His large hand runs down her body, back along her cheek and her throat, his long fingers enough to crush her windpipe if he wanted. His palm dips between her breasts and presses along the line of her stomach, stopping right between her legs, where he curls his hand to cup her, and Tauriel shamefully humps his hand and whines pathetically—she thought she would have more fight than this, but suddenly, she’s afraid to move without his permission. She looks up at him through hazy eyes, sees the hunger in his gaze. She thinks he must’ve wanted this too, and he’s been holding back, and now the flood gates are open and he just might _eat her alive_.

He reaches for the thread of her tunic, and he tugs at the lace. The bow slithers loose, and then he’s ripping the sides apart, opening the green fabric right to her pale skin, all down her stomach, her breasts stopping the top from wrenching off her body but the rest tumbling away, and he goes right down to the base of her tights, where he hooks his fingers into her waistband, as though he’ll strip her bare and fuck her, right here on his floor, and excitement shoots through Tauriel’s veins, but at the same time, she chokes in fear. 

Fear is a foreign thing. She tenses, and Thranduil halts. His eyes rush to her face, the intensity on his faltering. For one moment, they just look at one another, Tauriel breathing hard and Thranduil poised and ready. 

Then he says, quiet and devoid of any emotion, “You don’t want this.”

“I do,” she mutters instantly. She _does_. She’s more nervous than she’s ever been, but when she looks at him, she can’t stand the thought of _not_ having him. She rolls her hips up into his hand and hisses, “My Lord, please—”

He slips the tip of his fingers beneath the hem of her tights. She wasn’t expecting that, but it still thrills her, until they graze the very top of her entrance, and then her body seizes up. His hand slips around her, beneath her clothes, cupping her, his long fingers up against her moist lips, and as wet as she is, Tauriel chokes, “Stop.”

His hand retracts immediately. She wants to push it back as soon as it’s gone, and she feels foolish, childish, her cheeks red and her body lightly trembling. She doesn’t know what’s _wrong_ with her. She’s fought countless monsters, healed from scars that cut to the bone, and even now, the fantasy of Thranduil dominating her makes her head thin with want, but then she matches it to the reality of this moment, and she’s shaking. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say, and she somehow mutters in a cracked voice, “I... I am sorry, My Lord...”

Thranduil slowly shakes his head and tells her, “Dreams do not always go as we planned.” He slides off of her to sit next to her along the ground. She wants to sit up but doesn’t have the strength and can’t seem to make her limbs move. 

She’s never felt so ridiculously embarrassed in her life. And before her king, no less. She splutters again, “I am so sorry—”

“Hush,” he tells her, offering out a hand. “You have nothing to apologize for.” She puts her hand in his, still excited by its warmth. 

He helps her sit up. Her tunic still hangs open, but it covers enough of her that she doesn’t bother to deal with it, and he doesn’t touch her body. She babbles, “I should not have pushed you like that, but I truly thought...” and then she can’t explain, so she merely shakes her head. She looks up at him, even though it’s embarrassing to meet his eyes, and she’s half surprised he can bear to look at her.

He reaches to brush some of the long, red strands behind her pointed ear. His touch is bizarrely soft: nothing of the monster she wanted only a few moments before. He tells her quietly, “You did not imagine the passion between us. ...And you did not entirely misread my lust. Your approach was... interesting, to say the least.” And here a faint smile graces his lips, a faintly whimsical look: clearly, he would’ve enjoyed the game of domination, if she’d let it proceed. Yet he assures her, “But it is perfectly acceptable to change one’s mind. The body is not something that can ever irreparably be given away.” 

All she can do is repeat, “I’m so embarrassed,” and shake her head.

His smile stretches wryly wider. She can only hope his amusement isn’t at her expense. Then he reaches forward, and one of his arms loops around her back, the other beneath her knees. 

He lifts her easily, rising to his feet. Tauriel can’t quite bring herself to hold on; she doesn’t feel she’s earned the right to touch him. He turns and brings her to the bed, setting her gently down in the array of plush pillows, where she can slump against the elaborately carved headboard. As he settles in beside her, he says, “We never have to speak of this again, if you wish. When you leave here, you will still be the captain of my guards, and I will think no less of you.”

That’s more than she could ask for. And in a way, it surprises her to hear it. She’s always pictured him like stone. She knew, of course, of the depth of his care; his heart protects all his citizens. But she never quite thought of him like _this_ , able to be so sweet and gentle, to comfort one lone woman who acted a fool, or at least feels like it. He’s more than she ever gave him credit for. 

And it drives her to murmur, meaning it all the more, “I _do_ want you.”

He kisses her forehead. It’s sweet and strangely comforting, and it makes her lean up into it, eyes fluttering. He lingers, and when he pulls away, he says, “We may try another way, and go slowly.” She nods, wanting to kiss him, but the mood’s past. Maybe he can see it, because his smile twists into a smirk, and he tells her, “Perhaps another time.” He strokes her cheek again. 

She reaches out for him, and he pulls her forward, hiking her legs over his thighs. Sprawled half in his lap, Tauriel luxuriates in being _touched_ by her king. It isn’t the domination she dreamed off, but he cuddles better than any lover she’s yet had. 

It’s a while before she dares to run her fingers through his long hair, draped down over her as it is. Her movements are tentative, but wanting, and it’s reassuring when he doesn’t pull away, simply lets her touch him as evenly as he touches her. She murmurs, “I hope you truly think no less of me.”

“I have always admired your strength, Tauriel, but you deserve safety as much as anyone.” He punctuates it with another kiss to her forehead that makes her have to repress a small mewling noise. The praise makes her glow just as much. She always thought him disappointed in her, and it always seemed strange that she should be allowed to retain such a high position. She can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if she’d simply kissed him long ago. 

It seems to take hours for all her tremors to subside. He often sets them off again, though his other touches leave her more longing than afraid. Finally, he offers, “I will walk you back to your quarters.”

She says, “There is no need.” In truth, she wants to stay in his. But she recognizes that she will need some time to think, and he nods in acquiescence, respecting that privacy. 

He still helps her off the bed, but they part at the door, where he tells her, “You will still not be chasing down the spiders.”

For once, Tauriel submits easily.

She says, “As you wish, My Lord,” and turns the handle to go, eager to return.


End file.
